


Yellow Light

by BrunetteAuthorette99



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Gen, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Necklaces, Past Relationship(s), Post-Game(s), Spoilers, The Fade, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2888690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrunetteAuthorette99/pseuds/BrunetteAuthorette99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wants to believe that Solas will come back to her, that his absence is only temporary. She remembers the pain and sadness on his face, his last words to her:<em> It was not supposed to happen this way.</em></p>
<p>But Solas does not return. And deep in the Fade, the wolves stalk her restless sleep.</p>
<p>Set after the events of <em>Dragon Age: Inquisition.</em> Written prior to the <em>Trespasser</em> DLC, so no spoilers here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Light

**Author's Note:**

> _I'm looking for a place to start,_   
>  _But everything feels so different now._   
>  _Just grab a hold of my hand,_   
>  _I will lead you through this wonderland._   
>  _Water up to my knees,_   
>  _But sharks are swimming in the sea._   
>  _Just follow my yellow light_   
>  _And ignore all those big warning signs._
> 
> _Somewhere deep in the dark_  
>  _A howling beast hears us talk._  
>  _I dare you to close your eyes_  
>  _And see all the colors in disguise._  
>  _Running into the night,_  
>  _The earth is shaking and I see a light._  
>  _The light is blinding my eyes_  
>  _As the soft walls eat us alive..._
> 
> \- "Yellow Light," Of Monsters and Men

The nightmare is over.

Corypheus: dead – or at the very least, bound within the Fade, never to return. The Breach: sealed, again. The Inquisition: still standing. And herself: still alive, against all odds.

But Solas is gone, and her victory rings hollow.

 

She wishes she could cry. The weakness of tears would be easier than carrying around this stone in her chest: heavy and hard and cold, its jagged edges tearing into her lungs every time she draws breath. It weighs her down, holds her here: at the celebration with all of this laughter and cheer, being praised and thanked and passed tankards of ale.

But being alone is not an option and the tears don’t come, so she puts on a braver face and lets it do the talking for her: _Yes, incredible. Yes, a triumph. Yes, we still have work to do._

_Yes, I’m fine._

 

Leliana pulls her away from the admirers and friends to breaks the news to her as gently as she can, saying that her scouts have found no sign of him. Her words suggest hope, still hidden along with Solas, but her eyes are pitying.

She wants to believe that Solas will come back to her, that his absence is only temporary. She remembers the pain and sadness on his face, his last words to her: _It was not supposed to happen this way._ Any moment now, he could walk into the great hall, his eyes lighting up and his mouth curving into a secret smile as her gaze meets his, and this terrible heartache will be gone – for both of them.

But she knows that if he doesn’t want to be found, there’s nothing she can do about it.

 

The night she returns to Skyhold, she hears the wolves for the first time.

In her dreams, in the Fade, she is in the Arbor Wilds again, and the trees loom around her, no longer a lush green, but shadowed and black in the moonlight. Only a few pale beams break through the thick canopies to the forest floor, but her eyes are used to the darkness, and she sees the way ahead clearly enough.

She knows these paths; she’s walked them before – before the Inquisition’s march, before the Conclave, even before coming to her own clan – and she knows the twists and secret places of the Wilds better than most. But the winding way through the undergrowth is less of a comfort than she remembered it to be.

Then, somewhere deep in the forest, a wolf howls, long and high and keening. Goosebumps course over her skin as another wolf joins in the eerie song, then another, and another, until the stillness is shattered.

In the back of her mind, she knows the danger a pack of wolves pose – maybe not to a war party of the Inquisition, but to a lone Dalish with no other weapons than her knife and the bones beneath her feet… if there truly are as many as she heard, she doesn’t stand a chance.

As quietly as she can, she slips through the brush, her footsteps hardly rustling a leaf – even as her heart pounds loud enough to be heard.

And then a wolf howls – _much_ closer this time.

And she runs.

 

Nobody sees her pain. Just as well – now that Corypheus is gone, all are busy with their own plans, outside or within the Inquisition. Cassandra: rebuilding the Seekers. Vivienne: returning to Orlesian high society. Varric: writing his next book.

And if they _do_ notice, most know better than to ask about it.

Cole is the exception. He, too, is keenly aware that Solas is gone, and he, too, is distressed by his absence. Untethered, he wanders now, away from the Herald’s Rest to anywhere she is – the library, the garden, the stables – seeking some taste of familiarity, desperately trying to pick up the pieces for the both of them.

“I wish I could help,” he whispers, and his face looks just as anguished as she feels.

She swallows. “As do I.”

They sit together in silence, feet kicking off the edge of the battlements. Then slowly, tentatively, Cole reaches out and puts a single, feather-light hand on her shoulder.

She finally cries, and it hurts worse than the stone in her chest.

 

She finds herself in Solas’ chamber for the first time since he left. With the striking, vibrant frescoes covering the walls and the papers and tomes strewn across the table’s surface, it looks as though he’s still here, hidden somewhere she can’t see. Standing just beyond the threshold, she is struck by how empty it is with him gone.

She doesn’t continue up to the library, to the company of Dorian and endless ancient scrolls about the Fade, or to the rookery, with Leliana and whatever scraps of information she can find about Solas’ whereabouts, but instead climbs up the abandoned scaffolding and stays there for a long time, staring at a swathe of crimson paint that has yet to dry.

 

The wolves return, night after night. She never sees them – only hears their howls echoing around her in the darkness – and she always runs.

 

_Now_ they began to notice. And she sees what they do now that they’ve realized: the hush of conversations as she approaches, the searching looks, the hesitancy in speech.

Most leave her alone. A few try to broach the subject, asking how she’s holding up or if she needs assistance with anything. Sera is the bluntest, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff and exclaiming that Solas just isn’t worth it.

(“Then again, he _never_ was,” she adds with a derisive snort. “You don’t deserve a snobby prick like him, yeah? ‘Specially not one who just ups an’ leaves like _that_ with no bloody reason.”)

Not one of them voices their real concerns aloud, but she knows what they are thinking: the Inquisition counts on her to be a leader, a figurehead, the one who can make impossible decisions and live with the consequences.

If she can fall this far, if she is truly this fragile, what good is she to them?

 

She tries not to look in the mirror any more. But even if she avoids her own reflection, she cannot escape the self-conscious prickling of her skin where the _vallaslin_ curves over her cheekbones in thin, dark green whorls like pine branches.

Knowing now what they mean – what they _meant_ in the days of Arlathan – her pride in them is overrun with shame and loathing, and sometimes, she catches herself wishing that she had said yes to Solas’ offer: allowed him to wipe them from her face, leaving her skin bare and clean. New. _Whole._

She tries so desperately to see them as the chains they are. But the longer she dwells on them, the more she realizes that slaves such as she really do grow to love their chains.

The _vallaslin_ is part of her now, as much as the freckles on her shoulders and the scars on her arms; to have it taken from her now… she refuses to dwell on it.

And if it _was_ gone, its absence would only remind her of the one who took it.

 

As soon as she closes her eyes and slips into the Fade, the wolves are on her trail.

Fear courses through her veins as she sprints blindly through the Wilds. Branches tear at her raggedly cut hair and patched-together clothes, and thorns stab at her bare feet, but the only thought in her head is of escape.

The wolves are closer now, and their howls and snarls are right at her back. _Now_ she can see their eyes gleaming in the undergrowth, their teeth bared and mouths slavering, and the terror in her heart makes her run that much faster.

Suddenly, a root snares her ankle and she stumbles, crying out as she hits the ground. Gasping to regain her stolen breath, she crawls forward as quickly and quietly as she can, gritting her teeth as her injured ankle throbs with pain.

Then she lifts her head and the sight before her makes her stop.

She is at the edge of a small clearing, enclosed by a wall of trees and carpeted with rich, full grass. Ancient stones and weathered statues, covered in moss and encircled with vines, are scattered around the ground, and in the very center, a single halla with elegant, spiraling horns grazes, and the moonlight shining on its pure white hide gives it a brilliant glow.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she is startled to see no sign of the wolves, and the only sound to be heard is a gentle night breeze whispering through the leaves. Letting out a sigh of relief, she lets herself collapse into the soft grass, her heartbeat slowing as her eyes wander over the peaceful scene.

Across the clearing, she sees something she hadn’t noticed before: a single statue, untouched by the ravages of time. A massive statue of a seated wolf.

And then it _moves_.

Her breath catches in her throat as the wolf stands. No longer of pale stone, but with sinewy limbs and fur as black as the night, it stalks deliberately towards the halla, its red eyes – not two now, but _six_ – glowing with a predator’s cunning. The wolf draws closer and closer, prowling on silent paws, and then it crouches, ready to leap upon its prey –

And the halla lifts its head, turning its gaze to the wolf.

The wolf goes completely still. Slowly, it raises itself up, eyes fixed on the halla. The halla makes no move to flee, remaining just as still as the one who hunts it.

After what seems like an eternity, the wolf bows its head, as if conceding defeat. Then it brushes past the halla, padding away with its shoulders hunched. The halla watches it go with a sort of sadness in its clear, amber eyes, but does not move to stop it.

Then the wolf’s red-eyed gaze turns to her.

She can barely breathe as the wolf approaches her, but her heartbeat, strangely enough, remains slow and steady. Little by little, the tenseness drains from her limbs, and she sits there with all the calm she can muster.

The wolf is before her now, its head still hanging low. Instinctively, she reaches out, her fingers brushing the fur underneath its jaw. Briefly, it closes its eyes, the red winking out into the gloom, and for a moment, she thinks it almost looks sorrowful.

Then its eyes snap back open, all six irises trained on her, and she jerks back in shock. The wolf’s maw opens, revealing a lolling tongue and jagged white teeth bared in a savage smile.

And it speaks.

 

When she jerks awake, shallow breaths fluttering in her lungs, she finds something clutched in her hand: a simple rope strand adorned with the brittle, blackened jawbone of a wolf.

She stares at it for a long time, watching as the first rays of morning light wash over the all too familiar necklace, the words of the wolf – no, _Fen’Harel_ – echoing in her mind:

_“Ma emma harel, vhenan.”_

 

_You should fear me, my heart._


End file.
